There was no telling what she would do next, he said. She was absolutely mental, and couldn’t be trusted. We’d only seen the start of what she was capable of, and he should know.
At this point, he lifted up his shirt to show the now famous scars which littered his stomach. It was unfortunate for the protestors that she chose this precise moment to let out an anguished yowl from her cage.
You see? A maniac who needs to be put down like a rabid dog.
The protestors immediately started flapping up clipboards overloaded with human rights laws and agendas. Whatever she’s done, they cried, she deserves to be treated with dignity.
A secure hospital! Treatment! Kindness! The older members of the crowd weren’t used to this jostling but managed to make the key words heard, punctuated by umbrellas and newspapers pointed to the air.
It’s too late for all that, he said. Too late indeed.
And so he drew out his gun and aimed at her head through the bars.
A hush fell with the body.
Goodbye, your Majesty, he said. He always enjoyed saying that.